


The Skillet & The Sun

by JMunrun



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JMunrun/pseuds/JMunrun
Summary: "The odds of surviving a fall like that, with this amount of blood loss?" The man points to the pollock of blood splatter drying on the rocks around them. "Slim to none, Jack."This was what Jack feared. Slim to none felt like the devil's lucky numbers.---Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham craft their future as fate, circumstance, and Chiyoh deliver them from the rolling Atlantic into the gut of Hannibal's past.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	The Skillet & The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I discovered NBC's Hannibal, and I still can't stop imagining what a season 4 could look like (#SaveHannibal). Anyway, I consumed Thomas Harris's incredible novels. I drooled over Bryan Fuller's scripts and how they adapted and played with the source material. I got incredibly carried away trying to do something similar while exploring the ridiculously wonderful/terrifying gothic romance established at the end of TWOTL, and uh... here we are. Thank you for reading.

Take a look out over the bluffs. See the way the moon dances over the Atlantic? Just there in the water on the line between moonlight and the void. Was that an elegant sailing boat?

On the stern you’ve found our dear Chiyoh as she fished her two men from the sea. She assisted them on their climb up the boarding ladder and watched the pair cough up blood and salt water. “Morons,” she whispered and checked for reactions. Hannibal was aware enough to smirk at her. She laughed and returned to the wheel for a quick and quiet exit from the area.

Her fish stumbled below deck. Will Graham’s head and his chest did not throb together; they syncopated. He stumbled forward, clinging to Dr. Hannibal Lecter like they were one man with four legs. The below, a space that was lined with rich dark wood with delicate gold engravings, was ready for them. There was a medical bag on the galley counter.

Imagination saw an opportunity to play in the wiggle room of Will’s adrenaline, convincing him he was the one preparing the syringe, the aftertaste of raw dragon throat still in his molars. Next to him wobbled Hannibal, bleeding heavily from a deep facial fissure and accompanying shoulder wound.

“Just to help with the pain,” Will said and made note of how Hannibal winced at his touch; some static electricity had survived their fall. He wondered how much while gently administering painkillers.

~ 

Sometime later, Will woke up calm, even though the pain was fresh and hard. The drugs had worn off and left him with a strange sobriety. He had expected an IV, restraints, lowlights and his attentive nurse in an equidistant armchair, but here he was alone—in a narrow forward cabin—in silk pajamas under linen sheets.

His shoulder was bandaged, his face ached, and his left eye had closed shut. The other eye, the working eye, found his dried out wallet on the bedside storage cubby. He squinted at his driver’s license, then the money fold—twenty dollars on his person.

Our boy lurched out of the bed and stumbled to a nearby carry-on sized suitcase. He zipped it open slowly and examined each musty garment. This was a wardrobe planned for him in another world. He gripped one of the shirts and pulled at the fabric. The tag was monogrammed with his initials. His eye focused on his left hand, then his wedding ring. Deflated by the sight of it, he slipped it off and hid it in a small pocket of the suitcase.

He left the room, used the head, then the shower, where he bathed carefully around his wounds with a wash-cloth. The left side of his face was bulbous with murky paint shade lava; an eruption from the gash left by the dragon. He covered what he could with a fresh bandage.

The gallery and the saloon has been erased of any blood. Will ran his hands along the elegant, custom cabinetry, and was then overcome with a fleeting shadow in the shape of a young girl. Her shadow skipped through the hall and was followed by bright laughter and the clicking of hooves. Will tried to ignore his mind and instead moved to the door of the after cabin.

He pressed his palm against the wood. _Hello, Hannibal._ He took a deep breath, and then felt the barrel of a rifle press against his back. It poked him and then backed away.

“You’re hard to look at,” Chiyoh said with a grin.

Will turned to her and grunted.

She continued. “Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea?”

Will attempted to speak through the throbbing, visible pain in his face. “How is he?”

“You almost did it. But you didn’t," she said. She sounded pleased. “He is resting. You should rest too. Lady Murasaki will need you to look your best... All things considered.”

He was quiet.

“If I were you, I’d dodge some hell.” She pointed her rifle to Hannibal’s door. “There are ways of influence other than violence, remember?” She puckered her lips together and imitated a kiss.

Will attempted to scoff at her through his ache.

“It’s your afterlife.” She put the barrel of the gun against his cheek wound, digging into it. “We need additional supplies. You be good while I’m gone, or I will find and kill your wife. Understand?”

Will understood completely. 

That night, his dreams were filled with the impending Atlantic ocean and the force of falling. Hannibal took the impact, but it was not water they hit. They crashed into a pane of glass and the ocean around them shattered.

He woke up covered in sweat. After wiping off with a towel, he put on fresh underclothes and paced around the saloon. Lost in thought, standing aimlessly, something clicked. Will cursed under his breath and opened the door to his Il Mostro.

He stepped up to Hannibal, who was softly illuminated by the hint of dawn squeezing the cabin’s narrow window.

Will snapped his fingers over Hannibal’s ear. No movement. With trembling fingers he folded down the blanket covering Hannibal’s chest and observed the impact from the water beginning to bruise on his back. The injury creeped down his side, colliding with the bullet wound in his stomach. There was something here he hasn’t seen before: the Verger brand. He hovered his index finger over the circle, then each letter. He stopped himself from touching it. Instead, he folded the blanket back up and noted the empty side of the bed. Its comfort called out to him and he wondered if Hannibal was placed off-center or fell asleep hopeful for company.

~ 

Nearly three days later, Hannibal rose. Upon awakening, he was immediately impressed at his own pain. He stretched and sat up, then peaked through the bandages covering his stomach.

What an admirable indentation there was on the pillow next to his. Shamelessly, he leaned down and inhaled the scent, noting Will's natural essences of cocklebur, teaweed, and warm brass. How they meshed with ocean air and sweat! He allowed himself a second whiff, and with it a calm creeping smile grew on his face.

After freshening up, a process, he limped through the main cabin. He found a notebook on the counter, and dragged his finger across the binding, where torn pages had created a mountain range. Next to it, the latest TattleCrime. _Psychiatrist, Cannibal, Dragon Slayer? Inside the FBI’s Deal with The Devil and the Death of The Great Red Dragon._

He enjoyed an article contradicting the FBI’s statement about the scientific likelihood of death from that height. Plus, there was an exclusive look into the FBI’s search for his body.

He paused at the subsection dedicated to Will Graham. He stopped over a photo of Molly Graham attempting to ignore Ms. Lound’s camera. He took a deep look at her.

He then took a look at both forward cabins, and then stumbled his way above. At the top of the stairs, he was greeted by the warmth of the sun and the barrel of Chiyoh’s gun. “Good morning,” she said.

She motioned him above.

Hannibal followed her command and with each step absorbed the incoming breeze with its shades of salted yellow. "We had agreed to sail north,” he said.

“We also agreed to meet at the dock.” She smiled.

“Authenticity, I suppose." He held her gaze. “Did you make a deal for me, Chiyoh?"

“Unfortunate thing about family. No reward money.”

Hannibal paused. “She wants to see me?”

Chiyoh nodded.

He rolled his tongue along his teeth. It took only a moment for the doctor to reset his reality, to move his trains of thoughts to this new game board. He said a gentle goodbye to an image in his mind—He saw a cold Canadian cottage, in which his lover stoked the fireplace. Only Will Graham could cause his mind interest in hypothesis, syllogism, or any absolute. He wondered… he could kill Chiyoh this moment and turn the boat around. No. We help our families when we can.

“Do me a favor, my psychopomp?” Hannibal whispered. “Delay our passage for a few weeks. Chalk it up to storms. I’d like to look my best.”

She smiled. "I'll leave you to your meal," she said and motioned to the side of the boat, where Will has set up his fishing station.

Hannibal noted Will’s posture, gloomy but approachable, ready for the inevitable: they had survived. He approached Will from the side and kept his view to the water. “What do you see?” he whispered.

“Red,” Will responded.

Hannibal took the seat next to him and closed his eyes. Then, he opened them slowly the way he had seen Will do. And in that view there were bodies floating through the ocean as the sea turned red. The deep shade of maroon filled every direction, a color so powerful it forced the sky above to turn a brilliant orange. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” Hannibal said.

From his pocket, Will grabbed and unfolded a piece of notebook paper. They finally made eye contact, and the stare was difficult to break.

The note said:

_TERMS_

  1. _No lying_
  2. _No hiding diseases_
  3. _No brainwashing_
  4. _No teacups_
  5. _I approve all meals_
  6. _I get dogs_
  7. _and I call Freddie Lounds_



Hannibal felt a lovely sense of permanence in this handwritten truce; its word count was allotted by nerves and its calligraphy shaken by pain. It was clear that either Chiyoh has not given Will the good painkillers or he has refused them.

“My own FDA,” he said.

Will frowned at him.

“I have two additions.” Hannibal licked his lips and continued. “When you do kill me, Will Graham, I would like you to eat me.”

Will forced words from his jaw muscles. “All of you?” he said.

Nearly giddy, our monster responded with, “the best or the worst. Up to you. I imagine it will either cement me in your mind forever or erase our madness entirely.”

Will pointed back at the list.

“Do you know how to tango, Will?” Will stared at him blankly. “You will.” Hannibal winked. First, he refolded the note and put it in his pocket. He then grabbed the nearby tackle-box, found a clean fish hook and pricked the tip of his own thumb. A pearl of blood formed above the central valleys of his fingerprint. He offered the blood to Will’s lips.

With a heavy breath, Will allowed the tip of Hannibal’s finger into his mouth and tasted the blood. He pulled away quickly. He hesitated, and then followed suit. He quickly grabbed the same hook and punctured his own thumb, lifting it the same way Hannibal had. He focused on the edges of Hannibal’s small teeth as they scraped the fresh blood.

_What’s he doing with his tongue?_ Will snapped his hand back. He watched a delighted Hannibal grab the other fishing rod and, using the hook, tie his lure. He casted out with an elegant, professional form. 

~

That night, unable to sleep in his own bed and unwilling to step into Hannibal’s room now that the devil was conscious, Will turned on the light in the galley and poured himself an extra shake of whiskey. He yawned as he moved to the saloon, and sat where Hannibal and Chiyoh had left a clean deck of playing cards. He shuffled the hand and played a round of solitaire. 

He held the queen of hearts when a little girl approached him. She had purple eyes and bright white hair. “What’re you playing?” she said in a thick accent. 

“A card game,” he said. He must have been asleep, he realized, for it doesn't hurt to speak. 

“I’m playing hide and seek,” she said.

“And who are you hiding from?” Will eyed Hannibal’s door.

The girl smiled and then shushed him with a giggle. “Can I show you something?” She whispered and pointed up. It began to snow from the cabin ceiling. She stuck out her tongue and waited for a snowflake to land there. “Try it!” 

He frowned. With a playful push from her, he stuck out his tongue and closed his eyes. His heart metronomes until cold transpired through him. When he opened his eyes, there was snow all around. They were in a winter forest, familiar and far away.

The girl ran behind the trees. 

Will stumbled to his feet to follow her. As he trudged through the accumulating snow, he saw her behind a large spruce. He pretended not to notice her as she popped out behind a tree and hit him with a snowball. 

Direct hit.

Will woke up abruptly. The laughter of a little girl’s voice echoed in his head as he rolled over and realized he'd stumbled once more to Hannibal’s bedroom. The devil was next to him, upright in the bed, reading. It was daytime.

“Good morning,” Hannibal said. He flipped to the next page. 

“Hi,” Will said and sat up. He groaned as he yawned. 

They shared a moment of comfortable quietness. Will starred at Hannibal, overwhelmed with his grace, ease, and the stubble showing on his chin. _There was grey in his beard._ That realization came with a mess of throbbing between his wounds, heart, and morning wood.

Will grabbed the book and tossed it away. He took the book’s place, straddling himself over Hannibal. He put his against his face, and stroked the prickling hair sprouting on his jaw. 

Hannibal's expression seemed to ooze with awe yet stay perfectly still.

Will moved his hand to Hannibal’s neck, pressing lightly, then with pressure. It felt so good to choke him, so he upgraded it to a strangle using both hands. 

Hannibal did not break eye contact as the pressure built. He narrowly avoided letting enjoyment slip onto his reddening face.

_What now?_ Will pulled his hands away and then scrambled out of the bed. 

Hannibal grabbed his book and found his page number. “Are you angry? Anger can often appear as lust.”

“I’m not,” Will said. “I don’t.” His voice wavered. “This isn’t lust.”

“Would you like to be sure?”

Will nerves laughed. “I’m sure you’re excellent in that arena.” The words slipped off his tongue before he could stop them. He shuffled with embarrassment.

Hannibal grinned with confirmation. “Desire is issued to us with our lungs and pancreas and everything else.”

“I have to piss.” Will stormed out of the room.

Hannibal watched him walk away and licked his lips.

~

That night, once more avoiding sleep, Will took the bottle of whisky and watched the night sky from the bow of the boat. He thought about snow. He pictured the stars falling towards him with a general flurry. Light twirling down on him. He thought to stick his tongue out, and let the stars onto his taste buds, but a voice knocked him out of his vision.

“What haunts you tonight?” It is Hannibal. There is a neatly folded blanket draped over his arm. 

“I should be terrified.” Will’s face was tired, but healing well.

“You may be in shock.”

Will sat up. He took a swig straight from the bottle, then offered it to Hannibal. 

To his surprise, Hannibal accepted the gift. He sat down next to him and did the same, although his face hinted that he would have preferred a glass. “Your mind, knots in wood. Your resentments, flammable as resin.” 

Will considered this. “I frighten you.” 

Hannibal did not answer. Instead, he unfolded the blanket and wrapped it over Will’s shoulders.

Will took the blanket like a cape. “You’ve had three years to plot your next design. That frightens me.”

“Your sentencing, my dear.” 

Will scoffed. “For which fate and circumstance have cast me in the resulting performance.”

“A leading role.” Hannibal took Will’s hand and kissed it. 

The motion turned into an awkward hand-hold, neither willing to let go or advance. Will sighed. “On the water, this is… nice. It will be different on land.” 

A beat. 

“Don’t consider us land-bound quite yet. First we must pass through the bridge of dreams.” 

“What happens at the bridge of dreams.”

“Consider it our temptation of paradise. Our island of Calypso.”

“I don’t see that for us.”

“What do you see?” Hannibal said. They shuffled closer together, a position that allowed Will to rest on Hannibal's chest.

“I see the futures we’ve created, and wonder which ones we will end,” Will said. 

_There was…_

_…Bedelia sipping her cocktail. She stretched out on a lounge chair placed feng shui on the tiled patio of this resort. She really hoped they were dead, but would hide out a few years for good measure._

_…And here’s Dr. Chilton preparing for another procedure. Today the reconstructive surgeons will insert tissue expanders on parts of his face and neck. These expanders will balloon his new skin, allowing it to stretch over the further distance for a smoother exterior._

_You had to admire his attitude. Embracing the horror of his own situation, made it easier for people to look. Unable to write, he worked on his next book in his head. Blood and Chocolate has a whole new meaning._

_…Shift to Margot Verger destroying the punching bag in her new home’s private gym. Her veracity received a round of applause from her smitten wife who stood the door frame. “You know, the investor meeting is in an hour.”_

_Margot breathed heavy. “I’ll be ready.”_

_Alana stepped up to her with a sweat towel, and pressed it against her forehead. “Imagine an intruder getting through our layers of security, and then realizing he now has to fight you.”_

_“In my dreams, the intruder walks right through the front door.” She grabb the towel and draped it around her neck. A pause. “You’re not telling me something.”_

_“School called. He got in another fight.”_

_Margot sighed. “He’s got his father’s impatience.”_

_“Nature versus nurture? We’ll figure out a plan tonight.”_

_“Fifteen more minutes.” She kissed Alana dearly, then turned her attention back to the punching bag, who she pictured as her new therapist. A lumpy, pearled woman who told her that her recurring nightmare—Alana letting Dr. Lecter through their front door like an old friend—is the result of overexertion. Has she considered reducing her workload?_

_At least Dr. Lecter supported her ambition._

_…Move now to Molly Foster finishing a round at the gun range. She was celebrating. Her surname paperwork has just come back in. She knew she would get letters under the last name Graham for the rest of her life, but she had no intention of signing it on a receipt or form ever again._

_It was incredibly easy to change your name when you get married. Much harder to change it back. “Rare for a widow to change her name,” one of the administers had said to her with a judging smile._

_How Molly wanted to stand up and scream at her. “Well you didn’t find your dead husband’s secret drawer of sweet Christmas cards and an expensive red sweater with a serial killer’s initials monogrammed on the tag.” But she didn’t say that. She didn’t say anything. She figured this was the type of person Will would consider rude, and that shook her enough for the day._

_....And oh dear, there’s Freddie Lounds, waiting outside of Molly’s cabin. In her mind, she’s honing in on her romantic sense of truth, realizing it may be the most truthful version of Will Graham there was; after all, she had been right. Her book about Will Graham may have stalled out under Dr. Lecter’s exposure, but now? She’s reworking her tell-all expose while the iron’s hot._

_How much did Molly really know about Will. How much did she really know about relationship with Hannibal? She was going to find out._

_…Finally, find Jack Crawford parking his SVU in front of a mid-century home with a cliff side view of the Atlantic. As he exited his vehicle, dogs barked and ran to him joyously. He heard Will Graham’s voice call the animals back._

_“They’re happy to see you, Jack.”_

_“And you're not?” Jack said._

_Will greeted him with a good handshake and pat on the back. “Come inside. Let me take your coat." The house had a bright red door. The inside was warmed by a wood fire, accented by plaid and gold._

_Jack inhaled deeply. “Smells amazing,” he said. The statement was no surprise._

_Hannibal entered from the kitchen, holding a bottle of white. “If you’re here to convince my Will to go back to the FBI, we will all need wine.” He waved them all to the kitchen and poured three glasses._

_“No profiling,” Will said as he entered the room and took his glass. He wrapped his free arm around Hannibal’s waist. “Doctor’s orders.”_

_Hannibal appeared humanly charmed by the embrace._

_“Well, I have to admit- this is not how I expected your therapy to go,” Jack said. He couldn’t help but be calmed by the affection between them; there was an authenticity in Will’s eyes._

_“You may have missed your calling as a professional matchmaker, Jack.” They clink their glasses and drink._

_The timer on the oven goes off. Hannibal put on oven mitts and pulled out the rack, revealing a human head in a decorative, exotic glaze. “What do you think, dear? A few more minutes?”_

_Will, with a butcher’s knife, cut a small piece of cheek and tasted it. “Perfection,” he said. He cut off another piece, and offered it to Hannibal, who took the bite straight off the knife._

_For Jack, the dream always ended here, seeing his own head glazed in the oven. He woke up to the doorbell, which he did not answer. At the door, Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller. They waited, then knocked again. No response._


End file.
